Chapter Six

In which one hero is pulled from burning wreckage by another hero, and all medical treatment is rendered useless by the power of the imagination

Peregrine Lamont was in a wonderful mood. He had dragged the strange, purple, slightly singed sail back to his manor, and tied thick cords to each corner. Now, he flew his vast, purple fin-kite across the greens of his estate, occasionally being hoisted into the air by the tug on the strings.

Flying High

A small crowd of townsfolk gathered to watch him as he grew more courageous and started to time his jumps with gusts of wind. He could fly almost twice his height into the air, and drift back to the lawns like a feather. After a particularly impressive leap, carrying him over the heads of the adoring crowd, Lord Lamont was interrupted from his game. Three farmers were running, stumbling across to the grass where the Lord was playing. They were yelling and pointing to the ridge behind the estate, where Peregrine had grown his boiled lolly forest. A hush fell as the farmers finally reached the gathering. Breathless and sweating, one of them stepped forward.

“Something has crashed, yonder,” he took a sharp breath, “Lots of fire, sir. The forest smells of toffee.”

Peregrine dropped his kite. It tumbled lazily across the lawn.

“Show me.”

* * *

Lord Lamont’s thoroughbred would not approach the wreckage. The flames were small now, licking the trees. Little rivers of burnt sugar rolled down branches, leaving curtains of sweet string, like fairyfloss, dangling around the clearing.

Peregrine dismounted, and moved slowly towards the huge, purple mass that had flattened his forest. He called tentatively for an indication of any survivors, but he heard no response. Turning to the small group of townsfolk who had accompanied him, he spoke.

“Search for bodies. Alive or dead, bring them to me.”

The group disbanded, and began to pick through the debris. Lord Lamont was puzzled. This was not something he had created. This was something new. He placed one hand against the hull, for it was clearly a ship of some kind. It was warm, and the purple colour wasn’t painted on. It was pearlescent, and had curious, glowing veins in it. As he continued to survey the crashed vessel, an excited yell echoed from inside.

“I got someone, sir! He’s out cold, but he’s breathin’!”

* * *

The mysterious gentleman finally awoke. The doctor ushered Lord Lamont into the room.

“What the hell is going on…?” The man groaned and tried to sit up. He gasped with pain and grabbed his side, shocked by the bandage wrapped around his middle.

“I thought you could answer that for me.” Lord Lamont replied, looming over the bed. “I don’t have any idea who you are, so you must exist.”

“I… Of course I exist.” He stammered. “Who are you?”

Lord Lamont looked at the man’s injury, then a thought occurred to him…

“Make it go away.” He demanded.

The man looked confused.

“You heard me,” Lord Lamont continued, “Imagine yourself healed.”

The man was hit by sudden comprehension, and closed his eyes. After a moment or two, he was standing upright, spritely and refreshed. He was no longer wearing burned rags, but a long, sweeping coat and smart seafarer costume. His hair was clean and falling in his eyes. He held out his hand.

“Captain Joseph Halloran,” he said, shaking his host’s hand firmly. “Master of the Skies, Adventurer Extraordinaire, and rather hungry.”

Lord Lamont nodded.

“Then we shall talk over dinner.”

And off they go to Dinner


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